Old Soldiers
by PinPin13
Summary: A moment of understanding and condolence between two old friends. One shot. Warning: character death.


Disclaimer– I do not own the characters, etc. I am only borrowing them from Janet. This is not for profit, just for kicks.

**Old Soldiers**  
>by PinPin<p>

The dark coat she'd worn was too hot for the late afternoon sun. She used her handkerchief to dab away drops of sweat instead of tears as the last of the other women moved away from the gravestone. Then she finally stepped forward and bent down to tuck a thin box of licorice bites in among the many colorful blooms. The service had been mostly family – unfamiliar faces and names, but such a familiar light in their eyes. His grandchildren all had his smile.

It'd been several years since she'd seen him in person. They'd been kind to him, his face softened but not roughed by age. He'd developed a gently slopped double chin and his laughter was deeper, fuller, rising from a thick, jolly waist.

The flower arrangements were wilting, lopsided in the humid heat. Behind them, propped against the stone was a small, worn Japanese comic that she distantly recognized but couldn't identify. It meant that Lester had already come and gone.

She glanced along the street as she slowly made her way out of the front gates and zeroed in on the bar on the corner. It was one of those local hole-in-the-wall establishments that had no sign to display it's name, just a neon sign announcing the availability of 'Coors' and a faded piece of cardboard that read 'open' in magic marker.

The bar smelled of smoke and stale peanuts, but the cool, dim room was a welcomed respite from the heat outside. Eyes adjusting and scanning, he was easy to spot, sitting alone at a small, round table near the back of the room. There were four shot glasses waiting, two for him and two for the empty chair keeping him company. He looked up at her and smiled with a slight nod of invitation, reminding her of a hundred other very different nights in a hundred other nightclubs and bars.

"Hey, Beautiful."

She couldn't shake the wistfulness from her answering smile as she sat and he thought to himself that she was still very beautiful indeed. Her eyes weren't as bright as they once had been, when they'd glittered with everything from fear to mirth to trust and fierce love. But they were the same pure, open, honest blue they'd always been. She looked slightly frail, a few stray grey curls rebelling haphazardly in the humidity and her smooth ivory skin creped from hard work and time. A straight and tall posture contradicted the light way her thin arm gently rested on the table, and warned that she was still not a woman to be underestimated.

"Can you still have these?" he indicated the liquor he'd already ordered.

She nodded and lifted the first glass.

He reached for one of his own and held her eye. "To Robert Brown."

They tipped their heads back and drank to fallen friends and unforgotten bonds. She coughed at the acrid taste, pretending the arrant tears were from the burn in her throat instead of the ache in her heart. She quickly grabbed her second drink and raised it.

"To all of them," she said with resignation and saw the answering grief in the way his gaze dove into the golden liquid of his glass, his eyes losing their way in labyrinthine memories of the horror and joy they'd all shared so many years ago.

They'd done this twice now. She saw him at Tank's memorial, but he'd been with his own family that day and they never spoke. Two years later he came alone to Ram's services. It rained that night and they'd shared a silent hug beneath a tin awning outside the parking garage, the heavy drops hammering the metal so loudly they couldn't hear each other's tears. And he'd appeared unexpectedly the day she spread Lula's ashes and held her hand as they watched the icy, lapping waves sweep her old friend away to a greater beyond.

There'd been other churches and gravesites over the years, but she'd never stayed longer than a moment or two to pay her personal respects. As her small collection of mass cards and announcements grew, she regretted that more and more. It had been several years since she'd heard anything about Hector, but she knew the truth from the set of Lester's shoulders when he looked at her. They were the last.

"I loved him," he said unexpectedly, examining the candid photo of Bobby that was printed on the cover of his memorial service's program. He was laughing in an extravagantly, homemade holiday sweater and a crooked Santa hat.

Stephanie sniffled slightly, her voice thick as she agreed, "me too."

Lester pressed his knuckled fist to the tabletop and used his other hand to grasp the back of his chair, needing the extra push to stand from where he sat. Even through the slight grimace as he stood, his lifetime of laugh lines were clear on his face, testifying to the true nature of the fortune-weathered man. Stephanie felt a ripple of peace soothe some of her pain, knowing that he'd seen happiness between these dwindling, sorrowful encounters. They hugged once more, holding one another tighter and several beats longer than usual, sharing the unspoken understanding that when the next obituary mentioned RangeMan, only one of them would read it.

(881 words)

**A/N: This is a one shot. Thank you for reading.**

[*Inspired by 'Talking Old Soldiers' by Bettye LaVette (If you've never heard this version of this song, grab a few tissues and give it a listen. You won't regret it.) ]


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